Remnants
by let it live and die
Summary: The rebellion has crumbled and the Capitol has been restored to its former glory. Katniss has been taken hostage to the Capitol. Her mind's been wiped clean. She's led to believe that she's Snow's youngest daughter. Meanwhile, Cato has been resurrected to compete in one of the sickest Quells yet. Unknown to the Capitol, the rebellion is stronger than ever. Catoniss. Mid-Mockingjay.
1. Chapter 1

_**Before I begin, I want to thank you all for taking the time out to read this. I really appreciate it :).  
It's inspired by Teri Terry's, **_**Slated**_**. **_

_**It's set during the Capitol attack in Mockingjay. In short the rebellion has crumbled to bits and the Capitol has been restored to its former glory. Katniss has been taken hostage to the Capitol. Her mind's been wiped clean. Every moment has been forgotten. Now she's led to believe that she's Snow's youngest daughter, Ustrina (which means either flame or ember in Latin).  
In the meantime, they've brought back Cato from the dead. He reigns supreme as Victor of the 75th annual HG. You see, since the first 75th THG was a bust, they'd brought back past tributes to compete for an even more entertaining show. That's how he won.  
Fortunately for Snow, the Victor has been altered – now he cannot remember his Games.  
The Cato bit was somewhat unnecessary, but I wanted this to be a Catoniss story, so yeah...  
Also, I know that the Capitol took less than a year to rebuild, but honestly, I believe that they could do it if they're really dedicated.  
PS. Katniss will only be known as Ustrina in the Capitol, when the rebels get a hold of her, she will once again be Katniss.  
PPS. If you're wondering why the rest of the Capitol citizens and Cato aren't bothered by Katniss living in the Capitol, Snow had shown subliminal videos to all the districts and the Capitol. All of Panem but Snow, the doctor and the rebels have no idea Katniss (and the other Victors who rebelled) exists. It's far-fetched, but then again, it**_** is**_** sci-fi!  
DISCLAIMER: I don't own, **_**The Hunger Games,**_** or, **_**Slated.**

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_-Reading the authors note will enhance your understanding of the story-_

My eyes open.

I look around the room for possible threats, fruitlessly. I am alone. Finnick is gone, so is the rest of my team. There is no protection from the darkness. I don't have a saviour.

My body is lifeless, but my throat is raw and dry.

A bright light flickers on. Even in the glow of the neon, the room is still murky somehow. I see my arms, waist and legs strapped on a titanium bed. My mouth is covered with some sort of thick, sticky plastic. I am clad in a thin white robe.

My mind is void of thought, clogged by the numbness of my being.

A man walks in. He is fairly tall with bright green hair and long, silvery talons. I know where I am now. I am in the clutches of the Capitol.

The man smiles at me wryly.

I don't move. I can't. His talons trace my cheek, leaving reddened trails. I don't feel anything.

The man is silent. Each heavy footstep is heard. He takes my arm swiftly, and injects a Capitol concoction into my veins.

My eyelids are heavy.

They are closing.

Everything is black.

_**- - - - - - - - - - One year later - - - - - - - - - **_

When I wake up in the morning, I am unhappy. My bed is cold and I've woken up from _that_ dream. The dream where the blond boy is following me in a forest. In this dream he tells me of a world where there is suffering while golden birds sing my favourite music.

It is a strange dream because I don't know any blond-haired boys and I have never heard of a bird that sings my melodies.

Father said that it is a side effect of my surgery. Last year I was involved in a serious accident that triggered amnesia – or so they tell me. Ever since then, I have been having bi-monthly check-ups with my doctor, Neuro Fray. Every two months I receive an injection that numbs my body and makes me pass out.

Doctor Fray told me that during my slumber, he does a thorough brain-scan. I don't know why. Perhaps it is because father wants to make sure I am okay. My health is father's main concern.

I remember the day I woke up from the surgery. My eyesight was blurred and my head ached dully. I was unsure of myself, unsure of the world around me. Father was next to my hospital bed and he told me something. I couldn't comprehend. It took me six months to learn how to walk, to talk. Now I am a fully-functional human being.

My door creaks open and my maid, Iyla, is carrying my breakfast. Today it is crispy, golden-brown toast, two thin strips of chicken, marinated in a creamy orange sauce, an apple cut into wedges and a crystal glass of fresh pomegranate juice.

I sit up and Iyla sets the tray on my lap and draws my hair into a bun. She switches on my television and politely enquires about my wellbeing. She leaves the room with a curt nod and quietly waits outside my door.

When I finish my meal, I press a button and Iyla hurriedly takes away my empty tray. She fills my bath with hot water and scented oils. I slip into my short, grey silken robe as she escorts me to my bathroom. There are fresh flowers filled next to my bath every morning – artificially-scented roses.

After my bath I change into a sundress with a geometric pattern and red opaque stockings with glittering gold shoes. My personal stylist, Ophelia, insists that I wear blue eyeliner so I don't look too 'simple'. She combs out my hair and places a bright flowery hairpiece atop my head. It is too silly. Just like my hair colour. Which they insisted that I colour it a blonde shade. My real hair colour is black, but father said that it was too average.

Iyla escorts me to father's office. Before I enter, I scan my hand and retina. It is a large room with enormous windows that cover an entire wall. Inside the room, there are several bookshelves, a desk, a television, the national flag and a map of Panem. I like reading in that room. There are many books on Panem's history. I find it sad and tragic.

Iyla waits outside the office, as she is not allowed inside without father's permission. Father is a very important man. He is the president of Panem. I am lucky that he allots time to spend with me and caters to my every whim. Some would say he is a good father, but personally, I feel that he doesn't love enough. He always flinches from my hugs, but he still allows them. We never bond together like normal fathers and daughters.

"Good morning, father," I smile. It is a mask I wear daily because I don't like smiling.

He looks up from his tablet computer and smiles warmly. "Good morning, Ustrina. Have a seat."

"You must be so busy arranging the Victor's Ceremony this year." I say.

"Nonsense, preparation has been completed. All we're waiting on is our victor." He laughs, settling in his chair. "My schedule depends on those bloody tributes now. As soon the victor is crowned, I must return to my work."

Father and I converse about the Games, betting on tributes and predicting the outcome. This year's Games are different from the past ones. This year is the Quarter Quell. Originally, there was a Quarter Quell last year with past victors, but the tributes were banded together in some sort of rebellion. They initiated the fatal attack that triggered my amnesia. But they are all dead now and all tapes with their Games have been destroyed. Father says I should not speak of it.

This year's Quell is about redemption and mercy. The dead tributes from the Hunger Games past are reaped and brought to life by our best scientists, donors and genetic specialists. It took longer prepare them because scientists had to run several metal and physical health tests. It took months, but it was necessary.

Now we are left with two Careers and a girl from District 7. I think that Marcus from District 4 will win. He treads carefully when he is in the arena and is wary of Cato from District 2. Cato is careless and couldn't be bothered to mask his tracks. His tactic is 'killing machine' and he pulls it off effortlessly. As for the District 7 girl, Alisa, she's very quiet. I wish that she would win these Games, but she cannot, because she lost her foot and can hardly walk. She will be the next to die.

Father and I tune into the live streaming of the Games.

Alisa cries with her legs dipped in the lake. The blood is being cleansed from her stump of a leg. She howls with despair, Cato or Marcus will find her now. She submerges her body within the depths of the lake. From the erratic gurgles that escape her throat it is clear that she cannot swim. As her arms are the only thing that one can see from the surface, it makes me think that she regrets it.

The canon blasts.

"Recklessness," Father mumbles.

For the next twenty minutes we watch as Cato and Marcus prowl the arena, searching for each other. As I watch Marcus, I realise that he possesses the qualities of a good hunter. He is silent and fast. He takes every measure to conceal himself. Cato is hasty and unpredictable. He sprints from one end of the arena to the other, sword in hand. He pauses by a tree to regain his composure before continuing on his perilous search for Marcus.

Father switches off the tablet and sighs. He is tired of my company, "Dearest, there is no need to tire yourself over the hunt. I suggest you take a walk."

"Please, father, I barely got see y—"

Father knitted his brows together, "_Ustrina_, I've dreadfully lacklustre work to sort through. Perhaps you should go about the rest of your day."

"My apologies for my disrespectful behavior, father," I say.

Father smiles at me with kind eyes, "All is forgiven, dear. You are dismissed." I curtsey and greet father goodbye.

Outside the office, Iyla waits for me. She ushers me to the ballroom for my dance lessons with my personal instructor, Taurus. Father says that is vital that I know various types of dance, as I have been granted honour of having the first dance with this year's Victor.

The pianist starts the song with a gloomy melody. I let Taurus slip one arm around my waist and hold my hand with the other. Step by step, he guides me, sweeping me across the room. He tells me that I've noticeably improved since last week and I smile as if it means something.

The cellos play soft music just before the drummer joins. Taurus spins me around and I pretend that I enjoy it. He makes a cheap attempt at petty conversation, but I decline. Iyla says that I'm far too unsocial for my own good. I prefer to stay reserved.

The tempo of the song picks up, but barely. I strain my ears and bid words to this melody. I cannot focus on the beautiful tune as Taurus speaks. His minor actions irritate me severely and break my focus on the tune of the song.

Suddenly, his arms fall and the band seizes to play. There is a sort-of beeping noise and flashing light coming from the jumbo-screen. It is father, who sounds delighted. "We have our Victor! Please give your congratulations to the Victor of the 75th Annual Hunger Games, Cato Ischyrós of District Two!"

I gasp; Marcus must have suffered the most despicable fate by Cato's poor boy's corpse must be mangled. I can just imagine the sword breaking the thin barrier of skin and plunging itself his heart. I shiver at the thought of the cold blade digging into warm flesh.

I am surprised to see that everyone else seems thrilled about Cato's victory. They cheer and demand an Avox bring them a large bottle of champagne. Father says that I am not permitted to consume alcohol, as it would cause brain damage.

Looking at the band, Taurus and Iyla, I decide that my mask has to be worn. "Ooh!" I giggle, (which is a very difficult task) as I make my way towards the group, "He's so _brave and strong and handsome_!" I won't deny the fact that his features are exquisite, but that does not outweigh his cruelty.

The drummer swoons besides me and places her small purple hand on my shoulder, "Oh, I would give up my wolf-skin boots to be with him!"

Taurus nods, "His body is perfection! If he gets a lip-implant he'll be so absolutely gorgeous!"

"I was thinking the exact same thing!" says the cellist. "Perhaps even dying his eyebrows green? It's the latest thing!"

The pianist knitted his eyebrows together, "No it's not! That was last season's trend, now it's replacing fingernails with sapphires!"

The drummer sighs in frustration, "No, it's _diamonds_!"

"I'm sure that the latest issue of Capitol Vanity doesn't carry false fashion tips!"

"He has a good p—" Taurus starts.

"Enough!" Iyla shouts, "President Snow would not appreciate you all slacking on the job!"

Fortunately for me, by time the group congregated again for work, it was already time for my dress fittings. Iyla led me to my private chambers, where the Capitol's most prestigious designer, Regina Giacomi, awaited.

My dress size was accurate and my couture gown was beautiful enough to outshine even the Victor. However, that was not my intention. I would prefer to stay on the side-lines and not be slaved upon. Father says that it is most peculiar, my personality.

My etiquette lessons don't begin until four o' clock, so I have thirty minutes of leisure time. Usually, I'd read a book I pocketed from father's office, but it is locked due to the fact that he's at the Remake Centre, overlooking Cato's recovery.

I settle for the gardens, where father grows lush roses. No one is allowed to touch the rose bushes; otherwise there will be severe consequences. I avoid going the beautiful flowers and instead seek shade under a willowy tree.

I've always wanted to climb a tree, but father forbids it. It is too unladylike and improper. I take off my shoes to see blisters and I sigh. I throw the headpiece somewhere, but I'm unsure where it lands. I lay myself beneath the tree, the leaves guarding me from the harsh rays of the sun.

I reflect on my life and how far I've come from being 'that vegetable girl' to a fully-functional human being. When I first awoke, I could barely understand what people were telling me. Their mouths were moving, but it just sounded like a whole lot of gibberish to me. I had to learn how to walk, to talk, to read, to write all over again.

When I was allowed to go home, I learnt that I had an older sister named Marina. Ironic, no? She is Marina of the sea and I am Ustrina of the flames. The names fit us; we are opposites in almost every way. Her daughter, Oracle, however, is a small piece of Heaven. She's fourteen with emerald-coloured eyes and lavender hair.

My arrival at home was not a joyous occasion. The day after I'd arrived, Marina and I had a spat and I found out that the media were trying to capture photographs of 'the vegetable girl'. There were many newspapers, such as the Capitol Inquirer and the Capitol Times that wanted an interview. CosmoCapitol magazine seemed to be the most persistent. Father agreed to it, of course, but only if they came to me for the interview while a guard oversaw the entire thing. Father still insists that I stay in the mansion and out of the danger areas. It is hard to comply, but I know what will happen if I don't.

I look up at the skies and watch magnificent birds with large, white wings soar. How I envy them for having the freedom that I crave so deeply.

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_**I hope you enjoyed this chapter. If you're still confused, just PM me and I'll explain this to you! Remember: Katniss IS Ustrina, who's been brainwashed. She will get back to normal later in the story, I promise. But for now, the whole Ustrina thing is necessary for the development of the story. **_

_**THERE WILL BE CATONISS GRADUALLY. **_


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the slow update. I lost all inspiration at one point. **

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES.**

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Father would not be pleased if he knew I am here. I am supposed to be in my seat in the VIP box with servants attending to my every whim. I don't like it when they fuss over me. It makes me feel like a helpless child.

Instead of obeying his rules, I stand with the crowd. Among them, cheering and screaming and even sweating. It makes me feel normal. No one recognises me. They are all too focused on this year's victor. He's a rugged male from District 2. Blond haired and blue eyed, he greets the audience with a smirk. He looks like perfect victor material.

He kneels and waits patiently. The golden Victor's Crown glistens in the light as father places it atop his head. The crowd applauds and screams with bliss. I mirroe their movement by chanting.

I close my eyes and imagine myself there, standing alongside father, smiling synthetically at the people of the Capitol. When I concentrate on that thought I see myself there, the golden glow of the crown gracing my artificially-blonde hair.

I push the thought aside, though. It is _absurd_.

Yet familiar.

Instead I watch as Cato bares dazzling white teeth and curves his thin lips upwards. He thanks father and shakes his gloved hand.

Turning towards the spectators, he speaks, "Thank you all for this, I look forward to being your Victor!" He winks and the crowd swoons.

It's barely even quarter-way through the Victor's ball and I've never been so jaded. I cross my legs – even though it isn't ladylike – and pick at the beads on my one-of-a-kind haut-couture dress. It's a soft grey thing that looks like smoke to me. I rub my temples as I have a horrid throb in my head.

I glance across the room and watch as squeamish, young socialites gawk at Cato and giggle. The older Capitolites are much more discreet when making eyes at his bulky frame.

Father, however, seems to be completely oblivious to the whole thing, reading off the Treaty of Treason II to our guests. In a way it's almost humorous.

_The throbbing gets worse_.

After a presentation on the rebuilding of the recreational areas, father announces that it's time for the first dance. He has a quick word with the all-too-popular Victor, who looks at me fixatedly.

I look back at him with my eyes practically burning into him, hoping to unravel his reasons for glaring at me. When I look at him I see blood-lust.

He doesn't seem too bothered and if he is then he's hiding it very well. Then again, I don't think that the 'ferocious glares' of a nineteen-year old girl who's recently undergone brain surgery is all that intimidating.

_My eyes water and I ward off a coughing fit_.

Father glances in my direction and then at Cato's and chuckles before quickly retaining his solemn face. He speaks with Cato some more before giving him a pat on the shoulder and briskly pacing through the crowd to his seat.

Cato slowly walks through the empty dancefloor and stands in front of me. "Care to dance, princess?"

"Of course." And I'm not a princess, I'm the president's daughter." I say as he drags me to the floor.

As the orchestra begins to play a lively, yet classic composition, I lay a hand on Cato's shoulder as he encircles a burly arm around my waist. He grasps onto my free hand with his own.

We sway across the floor in a haphazard fashion, trotting on each other's feet and stepping out of harmony. "Sorry," I say, "I'm not really into dancing."

He sighs, "It's alright; I'm no dancer, either."

We continue our graceless dance at the same uncoordinated pace, he twirling me until I'm dizzy and me plodding on his leather shoes numerous times.

_It is a miracle I do not collapse from the pressure I feel in my head_.

When the song ends, I break away from Cato's powerful hold and shake his hand.

As I reach my seat, a few women, all around my age, surround me. They prod at my shoulders and giggle, asking me what his breath smelled like and how soft his hands were.

I mumbled answers to their petty questions, not even bothering to look at them all. They laughed and shrieked and talked about bedding him.

It was a tradition here. When a victor who was over the age of sixteen was crowned, he or she would be bought and sold for their bodies. It was a truly disgusting practice.

_I gag slightly and my fingers begin to tremble_.

I feel my jaw clench and my fists curl. If father wasn't in the room, I would yell obscenities at those pretentious young Capitolites, regardless of their social standing or the fact that this was one of the most distinguished events in whole year.

I feel my eyes roll back a little and my throat tighten. My legs suddenly feel heavy and sluggish. For about twenty seconds I see images of a small girl who is swinging on trees like a bird before I suddenly see another vision of her, blood marring the face of fledgling beauty. I hear her laugh as black spots consume my vision and I grope for sight.

_The last thing I remember is hearing someone scream._

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**Thank you to anyone who has read this story. I sincerely appreciate it.**


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